I stand then return to my seat with 200 other Fresno civilians in a stuffy jury selection room downtown on a warmer than it should be Tuesday morning. I have come to fulfill my civil duty, after thrice tossing my jury summons into the kitchen trash and eventually responding to the letter that said something along the lines of "Sheriff, arrest, warrant etc..."

The cases for the day have not yet been scheduled, so we watch 1980's civil duty propaganda films on a VHS projector for two hours until my soul feels utterly depleted and my nose can take the warm stench of the sweaty fellow beside me no longer. I am a caged animal...I must escape....I eyeball the frumpy guard at the door and wonder if I can take him before the alarm sounds. I make a mental plan to distract him with a muffin then reach for his taser, but before I can implement my plan my name is called for release. There will be no cases for today! I am a free man.

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And by free I mean free. Emancipated. In every sense of the word. My office is closed for the day, my wife and kids think I'm in court till dinner time and my staff has another doctor on call. The day is my oyster. My car has a t-shirt, a pair of rock-shoes and a chalkbag and a tank full of gas. A warm wind blows from the north, reminding me of a scrappy hillside strewn with toughened boulders waiting for first ascents just miles out of town.

I grab a carne asada burrito from the taco truck on the courthouse lawn and am soon barrelin' north on 41 toward my destiny. A day alone among the stone and sage and western wind.

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In fourteen minutes my car is parked and I'm standing at this gate next to a sign that says "NO TRESPASSING" and another that says "NO LOITERING." A patient of mine owns this land and with loose permission I fully intend to loiter, and loiter hard.

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You see, I have been in quite a funk this past year. I wrecked my knee attempting Lurking Fear last year and have been truly unable to climb much since then. I'm still having pain one year out of surgery and I can't really weight it on anything much harder than 5.7. I have been out of sorts, my climbing goals and dreams and to-do lists sidelined until I see the surgeon again next week and discuss re-cutting it. I know, its just a knee, not a life changer, but not being able to climb has stifled my soul just a bit. I plan to treat today as a gift, a day of wandering and exploring and spending time in the wild. Just what the doctor ordered.

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I cross the threshold and make haste southward to avoid any confrontation with the local ranchers and am soon walking free-hearted and full of anticipation across golden soil baked by years of drought. I come across signs of my ancestors. The air is thick with their history in this land.

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I clamber up a dusty wash strewn with cobble rock, evidence of the great river that once flowed through this now arid plain.

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I head toward a patch of handsome 20 foot stones near a shady tree, an oasis in the hotter than expected October day.

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The smells of the Valley drift up the sandy corridor, filling the day with a sense of nostalgia and purpose. I am a pioneer in this place, a stranger but yet fully at home. I take off my running shoes and for a moment sit with my bare feet in the creosote sand, soaking up the place.

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A fantastic pinto colored boulder sits above me, the sun on its back, beconing me for a ride. "Whoa girl...steady...steady now...lets just get to know each-other now...." The rock is warm to the touch and I place a foot in the stirrups and start upwards. Lift-off feels heavenly. There's something about stepping off the horizontal, into the vertical, feeling the weight of my entire carcass transferred onto just fingertips tips and toes that brings joy to my soul.

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Its about V1 and it is perfect in every way.

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The crux moves included a selfie while on two footsy nubbins and a sidepull and before I know it I'm on top, sitting on a 20 foot summit with nothing around but the "caw" of a solo crow and a lone windmill creaking out a lonesome harmony in the distance.

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Back on terra firma again I spy a promising formation slightly uphill about one click away.

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My shoes make sooty footprints in the earth, the wind picking up as I leave the shelter of the dry gulch and cast out into more open land.

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The land begins to resist me. The temperature rises. The wind scrapes at my flesh and emptiness howls across the divide between me and my query. it has to be nearly 100 degrees. Sweat burns my eyes, stink rises from my shirt, but press on I do. Words from a Cormack McCarthy novel swirl in my subconscience.

“They crossed before the sun and vanished one by one and reappeared again and they were black in the sun and they rode out of that vanished sea like burnt phantoms with the legs of the animals kicking up the spume that was not real and they were lost in the sun and lost in the lake and they shimmered and slurred together and separated again and they were augmented by planes in lurid avatars and began to coalesce and there began to appear above them in the dawn-broached sky a hellish likeness of their ranks riding huge and inverted and the horses' legs incredibly elongate trampling down the high thin cirrus and the howling antiwarriors pendant from their mounts immense and chimeric and the high wild cries carrying that flat and barren pan like the cries of souls broke through some misweave in the weft of things into the world below.”
-Cormack McCarthy
Blood Meridian

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The land bakes and sizzles and simmers around me. Bleached bones of unlucky creatures dot the landscape.

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I weave through a corridor of druid stones, the magic of the desert filling the void between past, present and future.

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A lone sailor, an apparent vagabond himself, greets me on the ground at my feet.

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"how long have you been here old friend...how did you arrive here in this gyre of sand and mustard weed and tumblebrush? What waters brought you here and how long ago?"

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I wander drunkardly uphill toward what looks to be a nice batch rocks with plenty of first ascents lying in wait.

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Credit: micronut

And soon find myself at the base of a 25 foot tower, its countenance that of a massive tooth from some prehistoric fanged beast.

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This thing must be climbed. This tall thing with a blood red North face full of gemstone conglomerate knobs begs to be climbed. I shoe up quickly before the warning signs of "don't do this" or "the knee isn't ready for this" or "you know knobs like these break all the time" cannot be ignored.

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In an instant I am lashed to its back. No way down, no way out, committed to the ride.

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Credit: micronut

The rock is a wonderful Jackson Pollack combination of cambrian cobble and total shite.

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I tiptoe and finesse and cuss my way up the aręte. Taking selfies while in harm's way is a skill I am proud of. And I flaunt my selfieskillz while transitioning off the aręte onto the face about 20feet off the arid turf.

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A few rockovers while thoroughly in the coffin-zone and I am gleefully scampering up to the summit.

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And behold....why do mine eyes see? A relic. A shiny metallurgical talisman of the vertical pioneers of yesteryear!

"BACK THIS UP!" Is scrawled on its surface.....A warning? An invitation? You decide.

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Ah, you sneaky old men. Who hath passed this way hence? Beckey? Robbins? Harding? Haymond? I find comfort in their passing and connect with their legacy, if only briefly on this lonely pointy capstone.

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My catharsis complete, I carefully downclamber and downscamper the west ridge and move onwards, upwards. a strange force pulling me south across sullen terrain, beyond bleached bones and stark branches lying dead where they once lived a life of green next to a creekbed that once flowed nearby bringing life and liquid but now only the breeze and the boulders whisper of its passing. I will aim for the crest of the mesa, where a series of ochre laser cut corners of bullet hard stone await.

A screetch from above...a lonely cry from a winged beast that is nowhere to be found. The sun....the relentless sun.....it seems to know I have brought no water to slake my thirst.

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I am beyond dehydrated, my tongue swollen, prying itself from the roof of my mouth for hard earned swallows. New routes will surely quench the dryness, they must. They must.

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My mind starts to spin in a peyote-like fever dream surely intensified by my lack of water and the strangeness of my surroundings.

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Credit: micronut

Upward I scwander....that's scramble/wander by the way.....and this is where things start to get strange.

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I make it to the top of the mesa and collapse under a shade tree. I crawl a bit back into a small cave, seeking shelter from the furnace sun. But the cave stinks of death and an uncomfortableness settles over me like a chill.

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Looking up toward a promising little face climb out the roof I spy a white object clinging to the smooth rock wall. As I look closer this is what I see.

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Its an elementary school I.D. of a ten year old boy. With the words "The One" scribbled into the rock next to it. I have no idea how or why this would be here, so far away from a road and so far off the beaten path in the middle of no man's land. It really creeps me out, so after holding it for a bit I place it back and log the name in my mind so I can Google search the name later. Unhealthy visions of kidnappings and worse start to dance around in my mind so I high tail it out of there and press onward toward the actual summit of the mountain above me.

Strange things are afoot so I 5.8 myself out of there up a crusty, guano filled slot.

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Reaching the "summit" gives me an unimpeded view of the landscape and miles of boulders in every direction.

Credit: micronut

Credit: micronut

The magnitude of my alone-ness overwhelms me. My car seems miles away. The reality of getting hurt out here sinks in and suddenly I want to go down. So go down I will. My eyes alight on what appears to be a little spire standing alone down on the valley floor and I make that my mark.

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I wander downwards, shedding the heaviness that sat upon my breast up there in the cave. The air is cleaner here and I begin to again find beauty around me.

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I hit the flats and find myself at a crossroads. One will lead to the car. The other toward towards adventure. In the words of ol' Bobby Frost I'll take the "road less traveled." And that will make all the difference.

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As I get closer, the little pile of lone formations grows before my eyes. What a grand and fortunate trick of the eyes it is when what one thinks to be small is in reality quite big. 12-25 feet tall these things are, and I plan to plunder the goods.

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Credit: micronut

Credit: micronut

I strike gold here in the cool shade of a perfect offwidth. Jaybro would be proud of me. I style the thing with with minimal skin loss while still managing two selfies. One from the outside....

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and one from within. Like I said, mad selfie skillz.

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With the last of my reserves I walk slowly down to the massive slender tower just thirty feet away and take in its grandeur and beauty. This land is full of surprises, and here, at the end of the day, beyond the barbed wire and Comanche hardpan, beyond the thirst and dirt and eerie silence I find what I have come for.

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It is a thing of beauty. A dagger, flint hard and full of terrible symetrty. So perfect a boulder in this land has my eyes have not seen. A shard from middle earth itself so begotten in its beauty that I scarcely beg pardon an ascent. But have my way with it I will. This is the West, a land of pillage and plunder and opportunity and I will stake my claim on this dusty and derelict plain and I shall fear not pain nor failure nor death itself in my attempt.

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I climb up three moves, get gripped, and bail.

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I'm hot, thirsty and scared. I have to be home in an hour for dinner and I'm about a half mile from the car. So I take a shadowselfie and start the long journey back.

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In fifteen minutes I'm back at my rig and fully sated with adventure. It's been a long day that started auspiciously but has ended with a belly full of good memories and an eye opening look at a beautiful landscape rife with potential. I scurry over the fence, crank the AC and point the bow homeward. In the distance, I swear I hear the lone cry of a coyote out in the hinterlands yonder. A lone coyote with its siren call, beckoning me back this way soon again.

That's so cool you are allowed to climb out there! I grew up in Fresno and had my first climbing experiences out there - on Little Table Mountain. This was around '69-'70. Shortly after that it was closed to the public. I don't blame the landowner. Partiers and various yahoos frightened his cattle, and even started a fire.

I live in Mammoth now, but would love a trip down memory lane if you would like to invite me out there sometime. PM me.

Excellent, Scott. I learned to climb at Little Table Mountain, and consider it one of the best places to do so. Unfortunately, our "ancestors" (non-climbers, I might add) started to overrun the place, making it dangerous both for them and for the cattle that grazed there. Soon, it became off limits to everyone. They went so far as to get Madera County to abandon the right of way to the road east of the Mountain, so it's now a private road. Too bad. If I ever find a way out of the ghetto, I want to buy that place.

When the road was still public, the best way to the "Falling People Area" (where the terrifying Calderwood Crack lurks) went across a siphon on the Madera Canal. Next to the siphon was a warning sign that entering the siphon would result in certain death. Underneath that sign was another, stating "We the undersigned do hereby attest that we have returned from the dead . . ."

Thanks for the great pictures and memories.

John

P. S. Urmas, we must have just missed each other. I left Fresno to go to college at Berkeley in 1969, but was at Little Table Mountain from 1967-69.

We called it Little Table Tops, Little Tables, or simply The Tops. We had last gotten ran out of there in the very early nineties. One of our compadres got nailed with something like a $700 fine and 30 days community service. Instead of the gym we had The Tops, a place with soul! Some of us Bouldered and top-roped there 3-4 times a week when the weather was favorable. Some of the bluffs are as high as 80 feet. I remember a few of the names such as: Center Crack, Calderwood Crack, Little Eldo, Seven Percent Solution, Octoberfest Wall, Peace Through Homicide Boulder. My wife and me used to call that pointy dagger boulder, the 2001 Monolith. No doubt there were other names that predated these names. Maybe some others can help me remember some more of the names? I recognize that bolt and hanger as being my own. Many fond memories with very dear friends were had there.

Two Shoes what a reply. I believe it was about 20 years ago that I first went there as well. I have been away from the place for nearly 2 decades and last week was a real treat. I wrote up the little story a bit tongue-in-cheek knowing full well that there were not many features out there that haven't been climbed over the years. But in the back of your mind when you climb a cool feature on a neat formation you think maybe just maybe I'm the first one up here...... Then you find an old bolt or old wired nut or a piton and the game is up. The neat thing about a place like that is that every ascent feels like new terrain when 10 to 20 years have gone by. It was a nice day out and I hope folks enjoyed hearing about it.

jeleazarian, I remember the Falling People's area and Calderwood Crack! I also remember my instructors with the RCS of the Sierra Club - Chris Denny and Burke Zane. Chris and I ended up doing some climbing together the next few years. I'm sure we have some acquaintances in common from those days. I left Fresno in '75 For Reed College. It would sure be fun to revisit the scene of those early exploits!

Scott, I hope you didn't think I was dissing your report in any way. I really did enjoy it! Just totally jealous! The area looks as though it's been a bit over grazed does it not? Best not to mention that to Mike Urrutia I guess.

Urmas, where is Falling People's Area? I've never heard of the name.

Back in the early seventies I would on occasion go knock on Mike Urrutia's door. I would be holding a large garbage bag and would ask permission to take a hike, while cleaning up trash. He would give me the stink eye and ask if I was planning on climbing, and I would say something like, "No, just wanted to help clean up a beautiful area". I would Mostly take a hike, clean up a bags worth of cans and broken glass, and then do a little bouldering and climbing when I was sure I was out of binocular range. I used to like to do squeeze-chimneys a lot back then. It was a great workout and there was no way I would get spotted.

I remember most of the really good stuff being around the South bluff, maybe 2 miles south of where most of these pictures were taken. Does anyone remember an overhanging flared, hand crack, on the south end of the second bluff(when going South to North) that trends left to right, about 70 feet long, with a pillar behind it. If you came off of it in the bottom part you could swing into the pillar. Donutnational once top-roped this crack, down climbed it, touched down with one foot, and then did 6 more laps up and down both. That would total about a thousand feet of continuous over hanging jamming. The man really new how to get a workout!

It's a trip report like this and the resulting comments that solidifies my opinion that Fresno remains a very livable city for us in many ways. Burke Zane and Rich Calderwood!

My dad got me up really early one Sunday morning, probably about 1968, and drove me to a meet-up spot for a Tehipite Chapter outing. Not to my liking, I ended up scrunched into the middle of an old Chevy pickup cab with some tall man my dad claimed once climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. His name was Ax Nelson. He drove us up a long, winding road to a trail near Millerton Lake where we hiked to a boulder with a small cave and poison oak at the base. The guy was really cool, I thought. We all tried to climb the rock, and some of us made it to the top. Can't remember if I did or not. What I remember best was being scrunched in the middle of the cab of that old Chevy truck with "a famous man" who had climbed Mt Kilimanjaro, and all the stories he told to us on that winding road to and from that boulder trailhead.

I wasn't feeling that at all Two Shoes. I was stoked to hear from you. I was just kind of making fun of myself. I have seriously been thinking of making an attempt at some formal access out there and at least starting some discussions with the landowners again. I know it has been tried over the years but with a thoughtful approach the worst thing they can say is no. It might even be worthwhile to sit down as a group of locals and make a reasonable and thoughtful access plan to present.

The Falling Peoples area is on the north side of a bluff which is accessed from the north/south road that parallels little Table Mountain. The east face of this bluff is where Calderwood Crack is located. I remember a pretty high concentration of routes in this area. It features some of the tallest faces in the area.

Miss the Tops. Lots of time spent between there and Tollhouse growing up in Clovis. Used to climb out there at least 3 or 4 days a week. Great face and crack climbing. Such a shame access is a problem now. That place should be made park land and preserved unlike the rest of the San Jauquin valley. Real cool to see you got out there to enjoy the great climbing to be had out there.
On a different note there used to be a fun spot on an overpass on the 41 just north of Woodward park with glued holds. 30 foot walls with lots of fun climbing. Way before there was a climbing gym in Fresno so only option other than a buddies backyard woody. Cal Trans probably knocked them all off long ago I would guess. Amazing how a little PC-7 can adhere chosen holds to concrete.

I have always loved the saying "No Country for Old Men." Never realy knew its origins but I say it a lot. When I'm skiing an ugly chute. Crossing an iffy slope. Swimming way out in the ocean. It always just fits.

Awesome micronut! Great story! I thoroughly enjoyed er! Makes me all warm and fuzzy in an Armenian way.

It seems like there are quite the number of these boulder patches on the WestSlope. Just north of the Bako zone there is a patch of mostly choss boulders called Granite Station. I remembered seeing it when I would do MTB trips up at Greenhorn, on the way to Lake I. A couple of times we cruised about them looking for trials lines but it was above our ability. So, when I started climbing in 89 I took my shoes and chalk bag on a couple of my trips to Greenhorn. I was pleasantly surprised. I think I even flashed a 5.7 boulder!

Further north up, up past your zone there are some sandstone boulders in the LaGrange zone that I would stop at on my drive to Columbia College. I remember finding pins, some good cracks and some nice oak trees to have a smoke under and look out over the SanJuaquin and note the belts of brown to orange to blue when looking up from the horizon.